


All Been Done Before

by Eligh



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fairy Tales, M/M, Past Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A knight and a curse and a promise. He'll keep looking until they make it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Been Done Before

**Author's Note:**

> So! Here's another story about past lives, because apparently that's how my brain works, which is... surprisingly romantic of me. But there's blood and angst, too, so that's not new. 
> 
> Also, the last section was meant to be significantly more porny, but my porn muse has abandoned me for the time being, so I'll have to get back to you on that. 
> 
> Finally, there's a section here that involves some German language, which I in no way speak, so all the German comes thanks to Google translate. If it is glaringly wrong, let me know and I will edit.

_Once upon a time, there was a handsome knight. He was brave and good, with a pure heart. One night, he was riding through a wood when his horse stumbled and lost its shoe, so the knight walked to the nearest town to find a farrier. But the town he stumbled upon was under an evil spell, placed on them by a cruel witch. No one who lived there could ever leave, and at night, twisted monsters hunted the townsfolk. The knight found himself trapped._

_But there was a beacon of light in the darkness, because in the town, the knight found love. Years passed under the spell with the knight falling further in love every day, until the knight could no longer imagine what his life would be without his love._

_One day, the cruel witch returned to taunt the people she had imprisoned. Furious for his adopted townfolk, the knight challenged her. Being a creature of evil, she saw his pure heart and wanted to corrupt it for her own pleasure, so made him an offer. If he gave up a treasured possession, she would free the town._

_Without thinking, the knight agreed, only for the witch to take what he truly most cherished—his love’s life. Horrorstruck, the knight pleaded, but the witch had a heart of stone and left him with his love dying in his lap._

_Brokenhearted, the knight made a promise to his love—that he would search the world, through any number of lives, until they could be reunited. The spirit of the forest saw his pure heart and cast a spell of its own, giving the knight the gift of as many lives as he needed to find happiness again._

 

**5.**

**1160 (English Countryside)**

The village Nick had stumbled on was quiet—dead quiet, if he was being entirely honest, and it was disconcerting. There wasn’t anyone outside at all; the houses were all boarded up, and fine, it was early, just before true dawn, though the grey sky in the east made it light enough to see. But he’d been travelling for years (from Northern England to Istanbul and back on the King’s crusades) and he’d never seen anything like it.

He had a reason for being here, though, and so looked around the tiny village, eyes skimming each building until he found one with the sign he was looking for. He tightened his hand around Wind’s halter and knocked, his hand made heavy through his chain mail, on the wooden door that was marked with a horseshoe.

There was a beat of silence, then the door opened a crack.

“Are you the farrier?” Nick asked sharply, because at this point he was more nervous than a night of the King should be, so he was excused a touch of rudeness. The door opened wider and he was greeted by a monster of a man, huge and muscled and contrary to common sense (perhaps) Nick relaxed. The soot and the muscles were universal—this man was the one he needed.

“Yes? And the blacksmith,” the man said in return, but was clearly confused. He glanced past Nick to the slowly fading dark outside, then refocused on him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Nick arched a brow. “I require your services.”

The man licked his lips (distracting) and shook his head. “No, sir. You don’t understand. You’re new. You’re not part of our town, you shouldn’t have been able to be here. I’m not telling you to leave, I just don’t understand.”

Nick blinked. Rather unfortunately, he thought, he did. “You can’t leave?”

“No one’s ever found us,” the man said softly. “Not for…” he shook his head. “Come around back to the stable. I’ll look at your horse.”

“He threw a shoe,” Nick offered as the man disappeared inside, the door shutting behind him with a quiet click. Nick looked around the silent village again, now seeing with grimm eyes. He noted the creeping fog and the talismans in every window, the barred doors and yes, as he looked up, the odd, silver cast to the night sky. Behind him, Wind whickered softly and nudged him with his nose. Nick patted him absently on his neck and murmured, “I hope you like it here. We may be here for a very long time.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Nick ordered in his quiet way that made those orders so easy to follow. The man shot him a look, saying nothing, and instead led Wind to a stall, tying him up carefully, with slow, calming movements. He murmured something too soft for Nick to hear into the horse’s ear, then crouched down, inspecting his hoof.

“You let this go too long.” Nick could hear the trace of annoyance in his voice, and tried not to suddenly feel like he was ten again, being reprimanded for stealing a pie from the kitchens.

“There was nowhere.”

“You’re still nowhere,” the man said, just as soft. “This town doesn’t exist.”

Nick reached out and closed his fingers around a heavy wooden support beam of the stable. “It appears solid,” he said mildly, and the corner of the man’s mouth twitched up.

There were several minutes of silence, then, with the man measuring Wind’s shoe-less hoof, then carefully inspecting his other three as well. Finally though, he stood. “I’ll just re-shoe everything,” he said. “Not like we don’t have the time.” And then he stuck out his hand. “I’m Monroe.”

“Nicolas,” Nick said, taking his hand. “Nick is fine.” He fixed Monroe with a slightly more commanding gaze—he was a knight, after all. This man should be practically programmed to obey him. “Tell me about your town.”

Monroe chuckled slightly and turned away. “Tell me, Nick. How much do you know about fairy tales?”

“You’d be surprised,” Nick said dryly.

 

They talked. Monroe told Nick about the curse, how the leaders of their town had turned away “a… witch,” Monroe said, cagily. Nick almost corrected him—hexenbiest—but reconsidered, not wanting to put Monroe on the defensive. Instead, he listened when Monroe told him about how those unfortunate enough to live here had been unable to leave since then—couldn’t walk past the boundaries of their village. How every day the forest around them changed, some days dark and forbidding, other days light and airy. Sometimes they were settled on a moor. Sometimes, canyons or seasides, sun and snow.

And how, at night, Things roamed the streets, taking pleasure in ripping apart anyone who was still out when it got dark enough. “Not that it matters,” Monroe said. “We just reappear at the next midnight, whole, alive. We can never remember what it was that took us.”

“We’re trapped,” Monroe concluded, holding carefully onto Wind’s leg and nailing the last shoe in place. “It’s been years.” Outside, the day had brightened enough that any other town would be bustling. But here, there was still emptiness.

“Why doesn’t anyone come out?” Nick asked. “It’s day. The… things? Don’t come out now?”

“Why bother?” Monroe asked in return, bitter. “We can’t leave. Every day, the same stores we had the day before appear in our pantries, so we don’t need to hunt or farm. So we can’t starve. And leaving the safety of our homes means we might be caught outside at dark, which is…” he trailed off. “Unpleasant.”

Nick stared at him. “Have you been caught outside?” he asked, was unable to stop himself from placing a hesitant hand on Monroe’s shoulder.

“I went through a phase fifty years or so ago,” Monroe muttered. “I thought that if they killed me enough, it would end.” He stared off into space. “It doesn’t. _Nothing_ changes. We don’t grow old or die—permanently—or do anything at all. It always resets at midnight.”

“But you remember…” Nick prompted, and Monroe scowled.

“ _That’s_ the real curse.” He looked down, playing idly with a hammer. “Remembering. I’ve lived three lifetimes so far, Nick.”

Nick felt sick. He’d seen this spell before, but not on so large a scale. And trust a hexenbiest to force a town to collapse in on itself, demoralizing and destroying the people here co cruelly… He unconsciously tightened his hand around the hilt of his sword. Whoever the hexenbiest was who’d done this to these people—she was one of the bad ones. He wished he could find her.

Monroe was watching him speculatively. “How did you get here? There was another man, once. But he couldn’t step past our border. It was like he hit a wall in the air.”

Nick considered, then decided to just say it. If Monroe was human, it wouldn’t matter, if he was wesen, they’d at least know where they stood. “I’m a grimm. Maybe whatever your hexenbiest did doesn’t affect me.” When he looked up at Monroe again, he was met with red eyes, which answered at least two questions. Nick regarded him curiously, careful now not to make any sudden moves. “Blutbad? How can you be around animals?”

The red faded slowly and after a moment, Monroe said simply, “I’m different.”

 

Nick tried to leave later that day, found he couldn’t. Neither he nor Monroe were surprised.

 

Monroe found Nick in the town square, leaning against the well and reading a heavy book. He sat down next to him. “What do you have there?”

“The record on hexenbiests,” Nick answered, distracted now by the warm press of Monroe’s shoulder against his. “Can you read?”

“Yes. Everyone here can.” Monroe smirked. “We’re the best-educated town in England.” Nick let him pull the book from his hands and glance over the pages. “This is slightly terrifying,” Monroe murmured. “Your blood strips them of their wesen half?”

“Apparently. I’ve never tried.”

Monroe flicked through the pages for a few more minutes while Nick watched him. Eventually, Monroe stilled, staring off into space.

“Tell me,” Nick said. He’d been here for nine months, by his count, and had learned to read Monroe very well.

“You showing up has made some think that the spell’s weakening. The humans don’t understand that you’re not… quite the same as them,” Monroe said slowly. “I’m not sure if the hope is a good thing or a bad thing.”

Nick ducked his head—he didn’t want to be a rallying point, especially since he still didn’t know how he got here in the first place. “I could talk to them. Try to explain.”

“You think they won’t panic at the knowledge that they live side by side with monsters?” Monroe asked dully. “I’ve thought about it before, you know. But there’s just me and the liebheiler. A wolf and a swan… we’ll just scare them.”

“They have experience with… not…” Nick searched for the right words, and Monroe smiled at him.

“There’s no reason to confuse them more.” He stood, stretching, and Nick watched the way Monroe’s breeches clung to his ass out of the corner of his eye. He would never say anything—he knew his preferences weren’t. Usual. But he couldn’t help but look.

Monroe turned back to him and held out his hand to help him up. “Come have dinner. The sun’s setting, I want to get inside.”

 

Two months later, Nick stayed out after dark. Monroe had tried to argue with him _(“You’re being idiotic! It’s just **pain** , Nick, blood and death and pain!”_) but Nick had ignored him. He needed to see what the things were.

But he didn’t see. They snuck upon him while he waited. All Nick caught glimpses of were sharp teeth and tearing claws, and it turned out that Monroe was right.

 

Nick woke in the same spot they’d taken him, a day later at midnight. He heard a growl and was on his feet in a flash, scrambling, nearly tripping over himself. He bolted through Monroe’s door and slammed it shut behind him, barring it with a crash and then leaning against it, breathing heavily and shaking.

Monroe appeared, his face drawn and pale, and peeled Nick away from the door, leading him toward the back of the house, toward the room where they slept. On the way, he snatched a hot cup of tea and wrapped Nick’s fingers around it, murmuring soothing words all the while.

And when Nick found himself being settled into Monroe’s bed instead of across the room in his own, he didn’t even blink, just drank his tea and curled against Monroe. “Please don’t do that again,” Monroe muttered. Nick nodded and pressed closer, not feeling the weight of being a grimm and a knight, instead just happy he had a… friend… to comfort him.

 

Waking up the next morning with his arms wrapped around Monroe was an interesting experience. Nick blinked blearily, letting the light seeping in through Monroe’s windows bring him out of memories of teeth and claws. He shifted slightly in the bed, adjusting his hold on Monroe, who was still sleeping.

After perhaps ten minutes of greedily taking in the feeling of touching Monroe, Nick let out a soft breath, debating if he absolutely needed to get up. But then he froze when next to him, Monroe muttered, his eyes still closed, “You could kiss me at any time, you know.”

Nick let a few seconds drag out before he leaned over. The moment needed _some_ anticipation, after all.

 

A year. Nick had been here for a year. Today he was standing at the very border of the village, pressing his hands against the solid wall of air that penned them in. He and Monroe had combed every page of all his books, both of them reading to make sure they didn’t miss anything.

There was nothing, and Nick didn’t understand.

The forest today was old and tangled, trees with hanging moss and black trunks. They crowded close to the barrier as if they wished they could engulf the tiny village, but didn’t cross the line. Nick moved his hand slightly and laid it directly over where a branch pushed up against the wall. He almost imagined that he could feel the leaves.

“Nick.”

The man in question jumped slightly, startled. He stepped back, dropping his hands, and turned. “It doesn’t make sense,” he whispered. Monroe nodded and pulled him into his arms, wrapping him tight and placing a feather-light kiss on his neck.

“I know.”

Nick stood still, letting himself feel the heat that radiated from Monroe. He hated it in this town, he really did—he’d spent his whole life wandering, never stopping for more than a few weeks. But here in Monroe’s arms? Nick was fairly sure that even if they were trapped here for a thousand lifetimes, the feeling of Monroe wrapped around him would never grow old.

“Let’s go home,” Monroe suggested. “I traded for some wine, we can get drunk.”

Nick pulled away just enough to lean back and look directly into Monroe’s eyes. “Only if you promise to fuck me later.” And then he smirked when his carefully constructed response had the desired effect and Nick got a glimpse of those red eyes.

“I suppose I could find the time,” Monroe growled.

 

Years passed.

 

Nick was grooming Wind when it happened. One moment he was running a brush over his coat, humming a song Monroe had taught him under his breath, and then next he was sprawled on the floor of the stable, trying to hold onto something—anything—as the ground tried to shake itself to bits beneath him.

Slowly the quake subsided and after calming Wind, Nick shot outside into the town square. Most everyone was already there, talking in low voices and glancing fearfully around. Nick found Monroe and grasped his hand briefly, careful as always not to let their true relationship into the open.

“What do you think happened?” Monroe asked him, and Nick shrugged.

“I’ve—”

A woman with gorgeous blonde hair and a wicked-looking smile stepped out from between two buildings, and the town as a whole gasped and took a step back. Next to Nick, Monroe snarled, letting his full wolf face out. He tried to push Nick behind him, but Nick easily pushed him off.

“My pets,” the woman purred, and the self-satisfied look on her face snapped Nick’s resolve. He broke free of Monroe’s hold on his wrist and stepped forward, momentarily wishing he was carrying his sword, but he’d stopped keeping it on him years ago.

“You did this, hexenbiest,” he hissed, and the woman’s face broke out into a broad grin before she flashed her true face for a moment.

“A grimm!?” she exclaimed happily. “You trapped yourself, how wonderful!”

“I’ll kill you,” Nick said, and she scoffed.

“With what? I see no axe, no sword.”

“Let these people go, they’ve done you no harm.” Nick was furious, stepping closer to her with each word, and he suddenly felt a hand catch on his shoulder. The hexenbiest eyed him, then looked behind him to where Monroe was holding on, tight.

“You want their freedom,” she mused, a delicate finger resting gracefully on her chin. “What would you be willing to give to me in exchange for it?”

Nick blinked and stepped back, startled. “Don’t,” Monroe whispered in his ear. “She lies, she’ll twist your words.”

“But—” Nick turned and looked over his shoulder at the man he was so desperately in love with. “—you could be free.” He looked back at the hexenbiest. “Anything,” he said, raising his voice. Monroe’s fingers tightened on his shoulder, and Nick added, “please.”

Something dark passed over the hexenbiest’s face, a malicious shadow, and she grinned with sharp teeth. “I want to take your happiness, grimm. I want your suffering.” She looked contemplative. “But that desire is so incorporeal. So I will take something from you. Something you will miss.”

Several things flashed through Nick’s mind—Wind, his sword, his money; even his health or his vision or, or _anything_ , really—it would all be fine, if only they could be freed. “Anything,” he repeated, and the witch grinned again.

She made a sudden movement in the air, sketching a symbol. There was a clap of thunder and an intake of breath—

Nick was standing in an empty glade in the forest. “No,” he breathed, and looked around wildly. The hexenbiest stood in front of him, still smiling her dark smile. “You lied.”

“I didn’t,” she said, and pointed west. “Your town is over that hill, and the citizens are free to come and go. I just thought you may want a moment…” she looked across the clearing, and Nick followed her gaze.

Crumpled at the roots of a tree was Monroe. Nick gasped and ran, falling to his knees and cradling Monroe’s head in his lap. “Why, no,” he sobbed, seeing blood and how Monroe was barely breathing.

The hexenbiest appeared behind him, her rotting breath ghosting over his ear. “I told you, I will take your happiness, you grimm filth. I take from you the thing you love most in this world.”  

In his lap, Monroe blinked slowly, then coughed, blood bubbling to his lips. “Nick?” There was a jagged wound in his side, deep and bleeding dark blood.

“No, no, _no_ , undo it, I take it back, I’ll live with the town hating me for eternity please take it back I can’t live without him please…”

The witch was gone.

“No!” Nick screamed, and pulled Monroe’s head to his chest. “Monroe, breathe, I’ll bring you to the healer, you’ll be fine, I love you, please don’t…”

Monroe lifted a hand, shaking. “You saved them,” he whispered.

“Too high a cost.” Nick’s voice cracked, tears already flowing.

“Nick—” Monroe coughed and his hand dropped. Nick picked it up again, pressed his lips to Monroe’s knuckles.

“You are my everything,” Nick breathed. “I can’t live without you.”

Monroe blinked. “You… can…”

Nick leaned down and kissed him, mindless of the blood, shedding tears freely. Monroe kissed back for a few short seconds, but too soon, much too soon, his lips were slack. And when Nick pulled away to look at him, Monroe was gone.

Numb, Nick stared down at the, the body. Monroe’s body. He couldn’t—

“I’ll find you,” Nick whispered, not even knowing what he was saying. “If it takes a billion lifetimes, I will find you. I love you, Monroe, I promise on my soul, on your soul, I will _find_ _you_.” Around him, the trees whispered softly in the breeze.

 

**4.**

**1789 (The French Revolution)**

Nick wove through the crowd gathered around the gallows until he reached his mother’s side, just in time to see the man being led up the steps. He had dark brown hair and a beard that had likely been nicely groomed before his undoubtedly lengthy stay in prison—the monarchy didn’t like public dissent.

“He’s a blutbad,” his mother told him under her breath, and Nick looked back up at the man, surprised. Kelly eyed the man in chains contemplatively. “It’s odd that one of them seems so level-headed.”

“Yes,” Nick agreed distractedly, searching the man’s face for any sign of his wesen side. On the platform, the executioner asked if the man had any final words.

“I’m being silenced because I speak the truth!” the man shouted immediately. “The royal family oppresses us, steals from us, and we cannot stand for it! They _cannot_ keep the truth from the minds of the people. We gave them their power and it is time to take it back!”

Nick didn’t have second thoughts about roaring in agreement with the rest of the crowd, or about booing when the now-nervous executioner stepped up to slip a black bag over the man’s head.

The man shook him off easily, stepping forward again, his face shifting wolfish, unnoticed by everyone except Nick and his mother. “They may kill me,” the man shouted, “but they will not kill our movement! Freedom comes to those who take it!” Nick stared up at him, breathing hard, moved by this unknown man’s heat and anger.

Suddenly, red eyes locked with his own and Nick felt a spark, like a lost moment—in that second, he knew that he and this man could have been unstoppable together. But then their contact was broken as the executioner threw the bag over the man’s head and yanked him back under the rope. The noose dropped down and fit tightly around his neck.

Nick barely heard the listing of the man’s crimes ( _For dissent against the crown, impersonating members of the royal court, and attempted assassination, Edward Monroe has been found guilty and charged to hang by the neck until dead_ ). Instead, he stepped forward, his hand ready on his sword—he wasn’t sure what he was planning on doing, but stopped nonetheless when a strong hand tightened on his arm.

“Saving one man won’t help us fight the Royals,” Nick’s mother said quietly. Nick turned to her, ready to argue, but she just shook her head. “Stay alive to fight another day, my son.”

From the gallows, there was a creak of wood as the trapdoor opened and Nick snapped his head around. He watched numbly as the man fell to his death, the connection he felt with him suddenly absent, an extinguished candle. Around him, the crowd roared its disapproval and Nick tightened his grip on his sword.

 

 

**3.**

**1848 (The Gold Rush, California)**

Nick shivered and fell to his knees, pressed a weak hand to the gash on his side. He we pretty sure he had a fever thanks to that bitch of a blutbad, and there was an odd feeling of numbness lingering in his feet. He’d have to rest, pursued or not.

He hadn’t even been hunting, being much more of a live-and-let-live type of grimm. It had just been bad luck that he’d shown up the same place as her pack twice—San Diego and now here, wherever the fuck ‘here’ was. But of course she hadn’t understood that he wasn’t following them and had jumped him a few miles outside of town.

It was just stupid—he’d even talked to one of her pack in that saloon in San Diego. They’d chatted for a couple hours about the gold miners and claims, joking and laughing hard enough that Nick had once almost snorted beer out his nose. He never got a name, but he’d seemed like a decent guy. Decent enough, that is, for someone willing to be mated to the bitch of the blutbad that had sliced him open—not that he knew who he was at the time. The guy hadn’t seemed overly violent, certainly not the crazed killer that his parents had raised him to believe blutbaden to be.

Nick winced as he probed gently at his wound. The fight with the bitch had been bloody and almost shockingly violent, but he would have won, if the guy—her mate—hadn’t shown up at the last minute. He’d looked shocked when the bitch had screamed, “He’s a Grimm!” at him, and almost apologetic when he wrapped clawed fingers around Nick’s shoulders. Turns out the guy was willing enough to throw him through a window, non-violent appearance be damned.

But now it was hours later and he was lying in the scrub somewhere in the untamed wilderness of California. He doubted very much that he’d make it back to Sacramento, especially not with a pack on his heels.

From the other side of the clearing there came a scraping scrabble of dirt, and _shit_ that was fast—Nick thought he would have had more of a head start than that. He pulled his gun, pointing it toward the trespasser, and to his horror realized his hands were shaking bad enough that he needed both of them to aim straight. The bushes parted and the blutbad bitch’s mate stepped through, easily ducking down the second he saw the gun, and Nick’s shot went wild.

“That’s not nice,” the blutbad said calmly over the echo of the gunshot, and the next second Nick felt the warm metal of his revolver slipping from his fingers. The blutbad tossed it carelessly into the bushes behind him, then squatted down to inspect Nick. “Common courtesy dictates that you don’t shoot people with whom you’ve shared a bottle.”

“Just kill me, then,” Nick spat. He tried to force himself to stand, found he couldn’t, and let out a shaky breath. “I’m helpless.”

The blutbad raised an eyebrow. “I noticed.” Slowly, he pulled a canteen from the ragged pack strapped to his back and then much to Nick’s surprise, held it out within easy reach of Nick’s fingers.

Nick eyed him distrustfully and the blutbad rolled his eyes. “What, you think I’d poison you worse than you are already? I could rip your throat out without breaking a sweat, Grimm.” He contemplatively took a sip from the canteen and added, “I should, actually.” After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he offered up the canteen again. This time, Nick took it gratefully, ignoring the comment about poison for the time being. Panicking wouldn’t help him.

“Then why aren’t you?” he asked, once the grating sandpaper of his throat had abated somewhat. “Killing me, that is.” The blutbad shrugged.

“I’m not a killer. But you went after Angelina. She was stupid for confronting you in the first place, but I don’t know, I supposedly am honor-bound to seek revenge or something?” He looked pained. “I _do_ have to kill you, you know. But I’m sorry for throwing you out the window. That was probably uncalled for. I might have panicked a little.”

Nick stared at him—the matter of fact statement of his imminent demise wasn’t so odd, but the way the blutbad didn’t appear to be enjoying his vengeance was.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked, incredulous, and the blutbad grinned at him. Nick had a flash of that same grin, poised over a glass of whiskey, some raunchy joke about blondes on his lips. The moment was a little surreal.

“Many things, according to my pack,” the blutbad said. Then he gestured to Nick, said, “Drink more, kid. It’ll make you hurt less.” Nick almost asked him why he cared, but then reconsidered at the look of genuine concern on the blutbad’s face.

“Why was your pack out here?” Nick asked, changing the subject, and took another sip from the bottle.

“Why is anyone in California?” the blutbad asked in return. “Untold riches, gold flowing in the streams…” He cocked his head and looked down at Nick. “Not that we planned on mining. More like eating the miners, of course.”

“’Course.” Nick didn’t bother to keep the derision from his voice.

The blutbad glanced down at the blood that was seeping from Nick’s side. “That looks painful.”

“Your girlfriend packs a hell of a punch,” Nick said dryly, and the blutbad winced.

“She’s not—well. Doesn’t really matter now. You killed her.”

Nick was surprised. “I did?”

The blutbad sighed. “She was dumb. And yea, you did. Hence the revenge.” He gestured to himself, then stood. “I promise I’ll make it quick.”

“Wait,” Nick said, a little desperate, but really—this man didn’t seem to want to kill him, not at all. “Please, you don’t have to.”

There was a beat of silence, then the blutbad squatted again. This time, he moved to Nick’s side, peeling back the ruins of his shirt and peering in at his wound, batting Nick’s hands away impatiently when Nick tried to stop him. After a moment, he snorted and pulled away.

“You’ll die anyway. She got you good.”

“I can get to the nearest town,” Nick snapped defiantly, ignoring how he suddenly realized that nevermind standing up, now he couldn’t really feel his legs. Didn’t matter. He’d get there somehow.

With a shake of his head, the blutbad walked to the far side of the clearing, quickly pulling some deadfall from under a tree and building a half-assed fire close to Nick’s side. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to contradict Nick, even though he could probably clearly see—or smell, hell, Nick didn’t know—the truth. It was only after he got a fire going that he turned back around.

“You’re not going anywhere, Grimm. You’ve got a fever and from the way you haven’t even tried to wiggle away, I bet you can’t move your legs. Angelina kept poison on her claws, you know. So no, I doubt you can get to the next town.” Nick thought he sounded actually sympathetic, and was just confused more.

“’m name’s Nick,” Nick grumbled, thrown off and now ignoring how the numbness was spreading to his hips. The blutbad looked startled for a moment.

“Alright,” he said after a pause, and produced a tobacco pouch from his pack. “I’m Monroe. You want a last meal, Nick?”

“I guess asking you to take me to a town would be useless?” Nick asked with a sinking feeling, already knowing the answer, and Monroe shook his head.

“I couldn’t get you there in time even if I were interested in saving your ass. But I can feed you and make sure you don’t die alone and in pain.”

“Not hungry,” Nick said petulantly, and Monroe shrugged.

“Fine.” He sat down next to the sputtering fire and rolled himself a cigarette. “Want one?”

“Disgusting habit,” Nick said. Monroe shrugged again and used a smoldering branch to light his smoke. They sat in silence for long minutes as Monroe first smoked, then got into his bag again and pulled out a skinned rabbit. He stuck it on a spit and a few minutes later, the clearing filled with the smell of cooking meat.

“I’m hungry,” he said conversationally. “You can have some if you change your mind.” Nick didn’t answer, just watched him and tried to wrap his head around why Monroe wasn’t killing him.

He inspected the blutbad—he was young, older than Nick, but that wasn’t saying much. Maybe he was eighteen? Tanned and lightly scarred, he looked generally like Nick imagined a blutbad should look like, with a scruffy beard and slightly crooked smile. But Nick remembered his claws and his fangs, (as clearly as he remembered his smile and his laughter, but Nick ignored that for the time being) and didn’t want to let his guard down, not that he could do much if Monroe chose to attack him.

After almost half an hour of Monroe puttering around the clearing in silence, (at one point wordlessly handing Nick a rabbit leg, which he then reluctantly ate) Nick had had enough. “Why don’t you just fucking kill me already?” he snapped, suddenly furious as he registered that the numbness had started spreading to the rest of his extremities. His fingers were already useless and his arms were getting heavy. Monroe startled slightly at the break in the silence. He looked sidelong at Nick.

“I…don’t like killing. It’s not my thing, ever, really. I’m supposed to get revenge, but the way I see it is that you’re going to die no matter what I do. I don’t see any need to make it worse for either of us.” He turned the rabbit, browning it further, and stared hard into the fire.

Nick glared at him. “What the hell kind of blutbad are you?”

“A wieder one,” Monroe snapped back, impatient. I’ve never killed anyone, Nick-the-Grimm. Is it so hard to believe that I don’t want my first kill to be some pathetic, scared kid?”

Nick sucked in a breath. “I am not _scared_.”

“Yea, I think you are,” Monroe said gently. “You’re what, fifteen? I think you’re scared out of your fucking mind.”

“I’m—” Nick took another shaky breath because this wasn’t fair, he wasn’t supposed to die like this, numb on a hillside in the dirt with a blutbad—a blutbad that he’d _liked_ until he’d thrown him out the window—cooking him a rabbit. “This isn’t—”

“I know,” Monroe said soothingly.

“I can’t feel my arms,” Nick said, his words mostly a sob, and a flash of worry crossed Monroe’s face.

“Really? Shit, I didn’t think the poison would work that fast.” He sidled up to Nick, put a warm and gentle hand on his head. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s not fair,” Nick mumbled. His chest felt tight and he was getting lightheaded. This was happening too goddamn fast, he was _young_ , he wasn’t supposed to die like this.

“It’s not,” Monroe agreed. Nick distantly felt it when Monroe gathered him up, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him. “I’m here, okay, Nick?”

“I don’t want to die alone,” Nick said, only vaguely aware he’d started to cry, which, yea, was embarrassing. He was a grimm, dammit, he shouldn’t be _crying_ , but Monroe didn’t seem to care. He wiped Nick’s face gently with a handkerchief he’d produced from somewhere.

“You won’t. I won’t leave.”

“Don’t let the crows get me,” Nick mumbled. It felt like his jaw was seizing up.

“I’ll bury you.” Nick could feel the rumble of Monroe’s words vibrating through his chest and concentrated on breathing for awhile.

“Why you bein’ nice to me?” Nick forced out suddenly. “I killed your pack.”

There was a snort. “You didn’t get ‘em all, baby Grimm. And I’m being nice because I like you. I told you back in San Diego that I liked you. You’re feisty.”

“’m not a girl,” Nick mumbled. It was getting hard to talk.

“No.” Monroe was quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around Nick’s chest. “I wish I coulda known you longer, Nick. You seem different.”

“I am.” It was almost impossible for Nick to breathe now. He started shaking, panicking and flailing the little he could when he couldn’t get enough air in. He looked up at red-tinged eyes and whispered, “Please…”

Monroe looked stricken. “I’m sorry, kid.” He pulled away slightly, placing those too-warm hands on either side of Nick’s head. Nick stared up at him, terrified—not of Monroe, this almost-stranger who’d shown him some odd sort of kindness in his last hour—but of what came next. “It’s okay,” Monroe promised, then twisted his hands sharply, and Nick was gone.

 

It only took Monroe a couple hours to dig a grave deep enough that the kid wouldn’t easily be eaten by coyotes or something.

He was torn—Nick had been nice, and smart, and funny, and Monroe had been utterly shocked when he wandered back to the abandoned house they’d been hiding in and found him poised over Angelina with a wicked-looking knife.

And as he’d thrown Nick’s light teenage body through the window of the second story, he couldn’t help feeling betrayed—betrayed by some jerk kid who he’d talked to for all of two hours, betrayed by hot-headed Angelina for forcing him to make a choice he’d successfully avoided for years.

He’d held her in his arms as she died and nodded when she told him to ‘kill the fucking Grimm,’ though he hadn’t agreed to ripping out his throat like she’d wanted. And he’d kept his promise to her; after all, he’d been the one to actually kill Nick, snapped his neck so he wouldn’t suffocate from the paralytic poison Angelina coated her claws with, but he doubted very much that she would have approved of his method of ‘murder.’

As Nick’s body slowly disappeared under shovelfuls of dirt, Monroe realized that he wouldn’t be going back to his pack. He didn’t belong there, not with people who attacked helpless kids for no reason (not that Nick had been _helpless_ , he argued with himself). But—

But Nick had treated him like a human; had treated him equally, had laughed with him and shared a beer and now this kid—this _nice_ kid—was dead because Angelina couldn’t control her anger and paranoia.

Monroe felt a little sick. No, check that—he patted down the final shovelful of dirt over Nick’s shallow grave and then leaned over and threw up.

 

 

**2.**

**1917 (WWI, Trenches in France)**

It was raining. Yet another night in the summer in France, the worst summer of Nick’s life.

Nick shouldered his gun and ducked down through the grasping thorn bush. The wet leaves of the brush slapped against his face, but it was worth the discomfort—the small hollow he was headed toward was the only sheltered spot at any point along his sentry line, and if he wanted to have a smoke without worrying about getting his head blown off by a sniper, some sacrifices needed to be made. Nevermind that the hollow was technically somewhere in no man’s land and he wasn’t really supposed to be here… it was a really good spot.

With a heavy sigh, Nick flopped on the ground, not even noticing the mud—he could barely remember a time before mud, couldn’t even really picture what it had meant to be clean. He fished in his jacket for his pack and lighter, and after a moment of struggle, separated a cigarette from the mess and stuck it between his lips.

He was holding the lighter to the tip when he heard the noise, the quiet squelch that meant someone was coming. But whoever they were, they were good, already almost on top of him without him noticing, and if there was something to be said for being both a Grimm and a soldier, it was that he was rarely caught off guard.

As it was, he barely had time to swing his rifle to the ready before a man slid into view, silhouetted against the pale moonlight. “Halt,” Nick snapped, and the man looked up, obviously startled. Nick watched as his face changed into the unmistakable angles of a blutbad, and Nick sucked in a breath. He cocked his gun. “Fucking _halt_.”

“ _Nein, bitte_ ,” the man said, and raised his hands. “ _Ich bin…_ ah.” He slowly reached for the front pocket of his grey jacket and when Nick made no move to shoot him, pulled out his own pack of cigarettes. He shook his head and his human side reasserted itself, then he said with a thick accent, “Shoot me if you need to, _Amerikaner_ , but let me smoke, first.”

Nick’s grip on his gun faltered slightly, and the moonlight revealed an amused smile on the blutbad’s face. “I’m a Grimm,” Nick snapped, but the smile just grew.

“ _Dann enthaupte mich_. I still ask for a smoke, though.” And with that, the blutbad plopped down in the mud opposite Nick and stuck his cigarette in his mouth. There was a flick of a lighter, and he leaned back, inhaling deeply and with obvious pleasure. “This is my first smoke all day,” he said conversationally, and Nick gaped at him.

“You’re not scared of me?” he asked after a moment, and the blutbad snorted softly.

“I have spent all day for the last six months getting shot at. A bullet or an axe, it will all end the same,” he said, and took another drag of his cigarette, then looked pointedly at the one still stuck between Nick’s lips, growing soggy. “Don’t let me stop you from enjoying one of your own, _mein lieber_ Grimm.”

Nick grimaced at him for a moment longer, then reshouldered his gun and fished in the mud where he’d dropped his lighter. A moment later, he was wiping it off before pocketing it and taking a drag of his own. “You speak English pretty damn well for a kraut.”

The blutbad shrugged. “I went to university.” He eyed Nick. “I’m Monroe, by the way.”

“Burkhardt, er. Nick,” Nick said after a moment more of glaring. “What are you doing here?”

Monroe leaned back against a bush and played with his cigarette, weaving it between his fingers. The cherry made an odd, glowing path in the dark night. “By _here_ , do you mean the universe, or the war, or France, or this particular bramble bush—which is, may I add, almost directly between our opposing force’s front lines.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, taking Monroe in—the slicked back hair and groomed beard. He wasn’t even that muddy. “The bush, I guess. Or the war. You don’t seem like the soldier type.”

“And you do?” Monroe asked, his eyes lingering for a moment on Nick’s mouth even after he’d pulled his cigarette away. “You don’t seem the Grimm type, either, though, so I suppose I could be off in my judgments.” Nick watched him silently, and Monroe pulled out another smoke, lit it with the end of his still-burning one. Eventually, Monroe shrugged. “I was conscripted, and I suppose I would rather take the risk of being shot by your allies than by my own people. As for this bush, it is the only sheltered spot in which one can enjoy a cigarette on a long, dark night of sentry duty.”

Nick smiled despite himself. “My thoughts exactly.”

 

They didn’t shoot each other that night, or any of the nights following. It turned out that they had similar sentry duty schedules—one night out of every three—and after several nights of running into one another and exchanging increasingly relaxed conversation, they started actively planning on times they could meet. Nick didn’t think about what his commanding officers would say if they knew he was hesitantly starting to call a German soldier (and blutbad!) his friend, but the thought didn’t bother him that much.

Their meetings were a small respite, a friendly face in the otherwise agonizing horror that was their lives. Monroe turned out to be dryly hilarious, a musical connoisseur, and more than willing to teach Nick German, which he appreciated on more than one level. Monroe seemed amused when Nick told some of his wilder stories about some confrontations he’d had with wesen back home, and was always willing to share his smokes, which was a blessing that Nick couldn’t even begin to explain.

They settled into an easy pattern: two cigarettes each, good-natured snark, occasionally a shared meal of pilfered bread or meat. Nick increasingly avoided thinking about how a German soldier and blutbad—his enemy in more than one way—was fast becoming his closest friend, closer even then the men in his battalion, closer even than Hank. He could just talk to Monroe and not worry about being judged. They could laugh together, share jokes that humans wouldn’t understand, support one another.

Monroe was Nick’s private joy—a title he wouldn’t share with the man lest he explode under the sheer weight of his mockery—and their nights spent half-shirking their sentry duty were so far removed from the reality of the war that surrounded them that it seemed another thing entirely. Nick had never felt a camaraderie with anyone like what he felt with Monroe, and he was fairly certain the Monroe’s thoughts on their situation were about the same.

At first, Nick was able to relegate the idea of ‘Monroe’ to the back of his mind, only letting himself look forward to their conversations on days he was assigned sentry duty. But thoughts of Monroe began to slink in on other nights, too, though the kind of things Nick thought on those nights brought a blush to his face in the light of day. And it wasn’t too long before—as the months and the war dragged on—Monroe started invading Nick’s daytime thoughts as well. He still followed orders, of course, but now he couldn’t pick up his rifle without the constant creeping dread that he was shooting toward his friend.

Five months after meeting Monroe, he didn’t know how much more he could take of this.

 

December and another night of sentry duty found Nick shivering in the mud-flecked copse of trees that was their current meeting place. Monroe was late and Nick was worried—he couldn’t stay here much longer; he actually needed to patrol, and the copse was a little too close to the German lines for comfort. He pressed his fingers against the hard metal circle in his jacket pocket and tried not to think about how cold he was.

There was a sudden crash and Nick spun, going for his gun but relaxing immediately when Monroe’s familiar face materialized from the gloom. “Monroe,” he breathed, relieved, and Monroe smiled at him, but then staggered slightly. Nick was at his side in an instant. “You’re hurt,” he hissed, half-terrified, half-furious, and Monroe shot him a weak smile. They pressed together for a moment, both enjoying their shared body heat.

“ _Es ist nichts,_ ” Monroe finally mumbled, then corrected himself in English. “Nothing. Just—” he took a breath and met Nick’s eyes. “I cannot do this anymore.”

“Do…” Nick trailed off, confused.

Monroe gestured wildly at the air around them, almost hitting Nick in the face in the process. Behind him, there was a dull thud of distant artillery, perfectly timed as if to accentuate his point. “This. The war. Shooting at boys, at you…” he trailed off too and stared at Nick, his gaze dark and doing all sorts of things to Nick—the kinds of things he never let himself think in the light of day.

With a shake of his head, Monroe pulled back. “I have something for you, _mein schatzi_.” Nick blinked at the endearment, but Monroe was pulling something out of his jacket, a thin, leather-bound book. He handed it to Nick. “Grimm fairy tales,” he whispered. “In the language they were meant to be told in. I wrote them down for you.” He smiled at Nick, who couldn’t help but smile back. “ _Fröhliche Weihnachten_ , Nick.”

Nick swallowed past the lump in his throat and pulled Monroe into a tight hug. “Merry Christmas, Monroe. I have something for you, too.” He unbuttoned the top button of his jacket and pulled out a small bit of smooth metal he’d been guarding fiercely for longer than he could remember. “It was my father’s,” he said softly, and pressed the gold pocket watch into Monroe’s gloved hand. With wide eyes, Monroe opened it, inspecting the delicate hands by the light of the moon.

“It is beautiful,” he breathed. “You shouldn’t—”

“I want to,” Nick interrupted. “I want you.” He blushed, and was momentarily happy that the moon was behind the clouds. “To have it, I mean.”

Monroe was silent for so long that Nick felt he might have stepped over some boundary, but then with a swift movement—an abrupt change of position that gave Nick one of his rare reminders that Monroe wasn’t human—Monroe was pressing their foreheads together.

“Come away with me,” he whispered. “I want you, too.”

Nick swallowed and tilted his head up. “We—”

“Don’t say we can’t,” Monroe breathed out hurriedly. “We can. We can go somewhere, Madrid or… or. Morocco. Rio de Janeiro. You have no family—I have no one. No one but you.” He looked at Nick with the kind of heat in his eyes that Nick had only dreamed about, and suddenly they were kissing, Monroe’s beard scraping through Nick’s three-day stubble. Their hands clutched anywhere they could reach, holding tight to jackets and threading through hair. Monroe was the one who broke the kiss, but only to whisper into Nick’s mouth. “Say yes.”

A thousand thoughts whipped through Nick’s head—they’d be shot if they were caught, where would they get money, how could they get out of France, and Monroe, Monroe, Monroe.

“Yes,” he said, and pulled Monroe close again by the back of his neck. “Yes, of course.” Monroe let out a relieved sigh and kissed him again. Nick closed his eyes, reveling. He could get used to this.

Another burst of artillery startled them apart. “Tomorrow,” Monroe said. “Meet me here, bring whatever you can carry and still move fast. We’ll run.” 

“Yes,” Nick said again, then, “I have to check in. They’ll be looking for me.”

Monroe smiled tightly. “ _Ja. Morgen, mein liebling._ ” He pulled Nick in for one last kiss, brutal and desperate; Nick felt the prick of fangs against his lips and when they broke apart, Monroe’s eyes were red-tinted.

“Tomorrow,” Nick said, and watched as Monroe disappeared into the darkness.

 

It wasn’t until later, in the firelight in his unit’s trenches, that he realized the front of his jacket was almost soaked through with blood that wasn’t his own.

 

Nick waited for him the next night. And the next, and the next. A week after he had last seen Monroe, he hazed out, apparently scaling the trench walls and firing indiscriminately across no man’s land. Hank pulled him back, swearing and terrified, but Nick just laughed as his blood blossomed through his jacket, mixing with the long-dried brown that was Monroe’s.

He was shipped away, section eight.

 

In an English hospital, Nick thumbed through a blood-streaked book that was filled with German letters. He lashed out at anyone who tried to take it.

 

 

**1.**

**2016 (Portland, Oregon)**

Monroe smiled at Nick as they stood at the altar, then reached out and smoothed down his lapels, straightened his bowtie. “Stop worrying, man,” he ordered. “Everything’s going to be perfect.”

Nick took a deep breath and nodded. In the audience, a very pregnant Rosalee caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up. At the back of the church, Nick could just make out his mother, lurking and giving the half-wesen, half-human audience distrustful looks. He glanced back at Monroe.

“Rings?”

“Dude,” Monroe rolled his eyes and pulled two rings from his tux pocket. “If there is one thing I am, it is organized. Just chill.”

Just then, the piano began to play and Nick’s gaze snapped to the back of the chapel. He grinned at the first flash of white, his smile just growing bigger as he watched Juliette walk down the aisle.

 

 

**0.**

**2237** **(colony)**

Nick stepped off the transport shuttle and breathed deep—a little too deep, actually, and for a moment he felt lightheaded. Oceania had higher oxygen levels than Earth, something he’d been drilled about endlessly (as well as other facts about his new home) but had of course forgotten in the rush that was stepping foot onto a new planet.

 “This is amazing.” Nick said to himself and turned slowly in a full circle, taking in the green-tinged sky and orange grass. In the distance, he could see the town he was scheduled to join as one of the second wave of colonists; it was just a few grey roofs rising over the trees. They’d started with five hundred people, all specially chosen from a list of thousands, and with Nick’s transport their numbers would raise to just five hundred fifty. For the first time, the reality of the fact that he was millions of miles from home really set in.

Nick’s role in the colony was that of Peacekeeper, second in command to Sheriff Griffin. Hank had hand-picked him (metaphorically speaking, of course—all their interviews had been conducted via long-range comms) from a list of candidates that had been, in Nick’s considered opinion, pretty intimidating. He still wasn’t sure exactly why Hank had picked him, as there were others from the list that were far more qualified than he was—special ops agents and highly trained soldiers—and he had just been a detective back on Earth. But he wasn’t about to complain—he’d been dreaming about the colony from the moment it was established five years ago.

Behind him, the mostly automated spaceship let out a quiet beep, announcing the start of the upcycle for the sleeping pods. There was a hiss of air as the other forty-nine colonists’ pods opened and the drugs started pumping them into awareness. It would still be a few minutes before the first of them would be coherent enough to get up, though. Nick had already been awake for a few hours—someone had to have their wits about them for the unloading, after all—and so was perfectly clearheaded and able to greet the small welcoming committee that he could see traipsing up the hill toward the landing pad.

“Nick!” yelled the man at the front of the group, and as they got closer, Nick recognized that it was Hank. “You made it all right?”

Nick grinned at him and shook his hand warmly when it was offered. “Perfect flight, sir.”

“None of that ‘sir’ shit,” Hank said with a wide grin of his own. “Just Hank. We don’t stand for a lot of ceremony here.” He gestured to the rest of his group. “This is Rosalee, our doctor, and Monroe, our communications man. She’s here to make sure everyone’s good after your flight, and he’s here ‘cause he’s a nosy smartass.”

“Hey now,” the man Hank had introduced as Monroe spluttered good-naturedly, “I am the _welcoming_ committee, Sheriff, and I will have you know that as this is the first time I’m welcoming anyone, I take my duties pretty damn seriously.” He turned to Nick with a wide, easy smile on his face and held out a basket. “Muffin?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Rosalee interrupted. “Let me get a couple readings, first…” she trailed off, peering intently at her equipment, and a moment later pronounced Nick perfectly healthy. Monroe smiled and held out the basket again.

“Seriously dude, nothing wipes out space lag like a muffin.”

Nick laughed and leaned forward, carefully choosing one that looked like blueberry. Monroe nodded conspiringly. “Good choice, man. Those berries came from my garden.”

Nick took a bite at the same moment that Hank slapped him on the shoulder and dragged Rosalee off to keep the order and check vitals, leaving Monroe and Nick alone on the hillside. Monroe swung the basket in his hand gently and Nick took another large bite, suddenly aware of how absolutely starving he was. Monroe grinned again.

“It’s gonna be good to see some new faces,” he said, and Nick nodded.

“I’m so freaking excited,” he admitted from around a mouthful of muffin. “I still can’t believe I’m actually here.”

“You’re gonna love it here,” Monroe told him. “We’re one big family—well, I mean, we’re slightly dysfunctional, hence the need for you and Hank, but for the most part everything’s good.” He looked contemplative. “You know, for controlled anarchy.” He then grinned at the look of horror on Nick’s face and poked him in the ribs. “Kidding. We don’t usually try to eat each other.”

 

The next couple weeks were a blur. New colonists were either settled in their homes or assigned roommates until more housing could be built. Families were given preference in the new houses, so bachelor Nick found himself alternating between sleeping on Hank’s couch or crashing in one of the two jail cells at night while helping with the physical work of building his own house during the days.

Monroe had been right—he loved it here. Granted, the colony didn’t have any of the tech that he was used to on Earth, but he found he didn’t miss it much. After all, who needed reality TV when you were shaping the world with your bare hands?

On top of everything else, Nick had been (mildly) surprised to find out that there were a few wesen amongst the colonists. It wasn’t like he’d ever even come close to embracing his grimm heritage, though, so the fact that the town’s wildlife expert was lowen and Rosalee was fuchsbau and the surprisingly large family that oversaw all the town’s construction were eisbiber didn’t bother him in the least. He was, of course, careful not to react during the random times they showed their true faces—he didn’t want them freaked out by his presence.

The best part about his new home (besides the sheer awesome that was the fact that he was living on another. planet.) was Monroe. The man was hilarious and gregarious, and Nick could see why he was the ‘welcoming committee.’ Everyone in the colony loved him, especially the few children, who could always count on him for a bite of candy, a joke, or an expertly crafted story. Nick more than once found him surrounded by rapt five and six year olds, and the fourth time he heard Monroe weaving a carefully censored Grimm’s fairy tale, he started to have a vague suspicion that there was more to Monroe than met the eye, too.

 

“Hey,” Monroe puffed, jogging up beside Nick. He grabbed one of the buckets of sealant Nick was lugging back toward his house, which was almost finished—just needed to finish insulating, as apparently winters here got unpleasant. Nick grinned in his direction.

“Winded, Monroe? Maybe you’ve been spending too much time with your transmitters. You should spend more time outside. Fresh air and all that?”

“I’m outside plenty,” Monroe shot back, easily shouldering the heavy bucket. He glanced in the direction of the nearby forest (Nick catalogued the look; his Grimm instincts pinged softly) and then back at Nick. “I was wondering what you were doing tonight.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because if you’re not doing anything, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me.” Despite his easy tone, Nick was amused to see that he looked vaguely nervous.

“Monroe,” Nick asked, purposefully dropping his voice to slightly lower than usual, “are you asking me on a date?”

“Um.” And now Monroe looked really nervous. “Yes? It’s just that you’re nice—and gorgeous, did I mention that?—and you’ve been spending more time than is easily explainable making excuses to hang out with me, which I suppose could just be you trying to make friends, but I’ve been getting that _vibe_ , you know, and I’m pretty sure I caught you checking out my ass the other day and if I’m wrong you can just stop me at any time, here, no hard feelings—”

Nick stopped walking due to the fact that he was laughing too hard to keep going. “Monroe!” he said, cutting him off. “Yes, okay? Your vibes are correct, entirely. What time did you want me to come over?”

Monroe looked immensely relieved. “Uh, six? And I’m a vegetarian, I hope that’s not an issue.”

“That’s perfect,” Nick said, now grinning. “What can I bring?”

 

Monroe had Nick pinned to the wall with his hips, was working hard to pull Nick’s shirt from his shoulders and still save the buttons. Nick writhed happily against him—the few months that had passed since that adorably awkward first date had been spent mostly in a blaze of happiness. Nick certainly hadn’t expected to find such a fit for himself in this tiny colony, but what he had with Monroe was easy and perfect in a way that made him think they were made for each other.

But when he opened his eyes to look up at his boyfriend, he stilled, shocked. He’d seen Monroe in various stressed situations over the last months (both good and bad) and had never seen him lose an ounce of control. After the first time they’d had sex and Monroe hadn’t woged, Nick had accepted that for once, his Grimm instincts had been off—Monroe wasn’t wesen.

Not so, apparently. Because Monroe was watching him with eyes that weren’t his usual warm brown. And it wasn’t that Nick was upset, but he didn’t want Monroe to think he’d been lying to him, so—

“Wait, wait, wait—”

Monroe blinked, breathing heavily, but gathered his wits and leaned back. Nick watched as the red faded in his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” Monroe was clearly worried. “Sorry, I was getting a little carried away, but you’re…” he trailed off, smiling slightly at Nick.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Nick bit his lip, and fuck it, he should just say it. “I just didn’t know you were wesen.”

The smile fell from Monroe’s face and he took a step back. “Wh. What?”

“Don’t freak—” Nick followed him, shrugging out of his shirt (making himself a tad more vulnerable couldn’t hurt) and wrapped his arms around Monroe’s waist. “I’m a Grimm.” And then he leaned forward and kissed Monroe’s neck when he felt him stiffen in his arms. “I said don’t freak,” he muttered, then flicked open the button on Monroe’s jeans. “I still love you, dumbass.”

“…fuck…” Monroe breathed, then backed Nick against the wall again, went back to sucking on his collarbone. “My ancestors are rolling in their graves.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Nick said, laughing. “Or better yet, take me upstairs and fuck me.” He looked up through his eyelashes, and Monroe let out a low growl. “Red eyes means blutbad, right?” Nick asked, low. “How ‘bout you show me just how big and bad you really are?”

Monroe growled again, and Nick grinned when his eyes flashed red.

 

“Monroe…” Nick groaned, sagging through the door into Monroe’s office in the comm building. “I could sleep for at least a week.”

“Poor baby,” Monroe murmured, catching Nick around the waist by surprise and pressing a kiss against his cheek before depositing him in his sinfully comfortable chair. “Issues on the farms?”

“If I knew being Sheriff on this rock consisted mostly of arguing about whose bull impregnated whose cow, I wouldn’t have done it,” Nick complained, letting his head thunk down on the desk.

“But then you wouldn’t have met me,” Monroe countered, “and we wouldn’t have our disgustingly domestic bliss.”

“George realized I’m a Grimm,” Nick said into the desk. “He punched me.” And without looking at Monroe, (he could tell he was bristling without even glancing at him) continued, “I’m fine. It was reflex. Apparently his family got hunted by one of my esteemed relatives before he came here. Which isn’t surprising, he is a lowen.”

“He shouldn’t have hit you,” Monroe grumbled, and Nick shrugged.

“We talked. I reminded him who I’m sleeping with.”

“Correct.” Nick didn’t miss the note of possessiveness in Monroe’s voice, and smiled into the desk. He rolled his head to the side.

“Are we still on for tonight?”

And now Monroe looked shifty. “…Yes. Do you have tomorrow off?”

“Provided Hank can handle hashing out who owns which baby cows,” Nick said dryly. “Why?”

Monroe crowded close to him, running a hand through Nick’s hair. “Because I wanted to ask you something.” He leaned down, clearly scenting, a habit he’d developed over the past year that still left Nick with a fluttery feeling of happiness in his chest. It was like he was checking to make sure Nick was still with him—and of course Nick was.

“Oh?” Nick asked with a smirk. “What was that? And why does it matter if I have tomorrow off?” He pulled Monroe closer and ran his hand up his thigh, equally as possessive as Monroe had sounded a few moments ago.

“You should have tomorrow off because I plan on keeping you busy in all sorts of horrible, debauched ways,” Monroe murmured.

“And what is the grand reason behind all that debauchery?” Nick guided Monroe’s head down, teased his lips open with his own. 

Monroe kissed back for a moment, then pulled away and reached into his pocket, emerging with a rough key. “I want you to move in with me. And. And marry me, you know. The whole thing.”

Nick reached out, plucking the key from Monroe’s palm. He stared at it, turning it so it caught the light. “Your house doesn’t have a lock.”

“I installed one earlier today. Symbolism and stuff? But that wasn’t really the answer I was looking for, Nick…”

Nick twitched up the corner of his mouth and dropped the key in his pocket. “What do you think my answer is?” he asked, his smirk growing. Monroe stared at him for a moment longer, then tackled him to ground. Nick laughed as Monroe rolled him out of the chair. “Monroe! I _know_ your office doesn’t have a lock!”

 

“I’m so tired,” Monroe yawned into Nick’s neck. “Who knew weddings were so exhausting?”

“Everyone who’s ever been married in the history of ever,” Nick mumbled. “You’re not getting out of having sex with me. It’s our wedding night, dammit.” He felt the lips on his neck turn up into a smile.

“Wasn’t trying to get out of sex,” Monroe said, his voice muffled. “I would never try to get out of sex with you.”

“You say that now,” Nick teased. “You still think you’ll be saying it when we’re ninety?” He stroked his hand down Monroe’s side, playing with the hem of his fitted silk shirt. They were in bed but fully clothed (shoes included), having simply collapsed after the rollicking reception. Apparently they were the colony’s favorite couple, and who knew?

Suddenly Monroe was leaning over him, pinning him down on the bed with gentle hands on his shoulders and staring down into his eyes. “Nick.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Monroe.”

“I love you.”

Nick smiled. “I love you, t—”

“We’ve got everything,” Monroe interrupted. “Our whole lives, you and me and sometimes it’s so much that I can’t even bear it, I’m so happy, Nick.” He looked up, stared blankly at the headboard of the bed for a moment, then looked back down. Nick’s breath caught at the intense want in his eyes.

“Do you ever get the feeling,” Monroe said, his voice soft, “that we’re, I don’t know, that we’ve really gotten it right? Like I’ve been looking for something for _ever_ and _finally_ got it right, and it’s you?”

“Yea,” Nick breathed. “All the fucking time.”

Monroe stared at him for a moment longer, his eyes running over Nick’s face, down his neck and shoulders, coming up to rest on his lips. “You—”

“You,” Nick agreed.

 

 

 

 

_So, the knight looked._

_For lifetimes upon lifetimes, he looked. Sometimes, he lived his whole life and never found his love. Sometimes they found each other but didn’t see the truth—those times they were friends, and found a sort of happiness with other people. Sometimes—and these were the worst times—they found each other, only to be ripped apart again._

_The magic that gave them their chances was old but strong, and after many, many years, and many, many chances—long after magic had mostly seeped out of the world—there was the right spark, the right moment._

_Hundreds of years and millions of miles away from where they’d started, they came together. And they lived happily ever after._

 


End file.
